


Any Port

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 8x13 coda, Everybody Hates Hitler, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 23:41:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What’s this?” Dean holds up the offending piece of paper and Aaron almost snatches it right back. Big dumb closeted weirdo, what the fuck does he think it is?</p><p>“It’s a phone number. You use it. To call people.” He says, slow and enunciated, and Dean’s mouth closes.</p><p>“Huh.” He says. “So – earlier –?”</p><p>“I was tailing you.” Aaron says, exasperated already. The big guy is flushing red, holding the paper as if it’s going to explode, between his thumb and pointer finger. “But you seemed interested, so.” He paused. “You’re Jewish, right?”</p><p>Dean stutters. Aaron rolls his eyes. “That was a joke. Call me. You know,  if you ever talk again.” He turns and walks away from the car, hands in his pockets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Any Port

**Author's Note:**

> (trembles nervously)

 “What’s this?” Dean holds up the offending piece of paper and Aaron almost snatches it right back. Big dumb closeted  _weirdo,_ what the fuck does he  _think_ it is?

“It’s a phone number. You use it. To call people.” He says, slow and enunciated, and Dean’s mouth closes.

“Huh.” He says. “So – earlier –?”

“I was tailing you.” Aaron says, exasperated already. The big guy is flushing red, holding the paper as if it’s going to explode, between his thumb and pointer finger. “But you seemed interested, so.” He paused. “You’re Jewish, right?”

Dean stutters. Aaron rolls his eyes. “That was a joke. Call me. You know,  if you ever talk again.” He turns and walks away from the car, hands in his pockets. 

* * *

Three weeks later, he hasn’t called.

Aaron wasn’t  _really_ expecting him to, to be honest; he knows a textbook case when he sees one, and Dean is so dug into himself that he could barely say  _words_ once he figured out he was being hit on – but he’s a little disappointed, if only because he’s always really,  _really_ wanted to fuck a guy like Dean; mess him up, get him moaning and pushing his hands against the sheets and awkwardly buying breakfast the next morning, wondering if this means he has to  _come out_  to his parents, or whatever.

Still, it’s not his fault; whatever Dean’s job is (Aaron  _really_ doesn’t want to know all the details), it’s a busy one, and he’s probably got some hulking man-crush, some lost love hiding somewhere in his past, who he’ll go back to now that Aaron has helped him _realise who he is,_ and dumb shit like that.

Trouble is, though, that the freaking  _Golem_ tagging along everywhere he goes kindof throws off his game, so life on the road – hunting Nazis, killing bigots; the family business – is lonely. More than that, it’s  _depressing._ And however often he ‘commands’ the golem to hold a fucking conversation with him, it just isn’t the same as actual human company.

He takes a break from travelling for a week, about a month after he meets the Winchesters and this whole thing begins. Goes back to his house, revisits all the facets of his hometown that he never really appreciated before he was forced to leave it for days on end. And that, serendipitously, is when he gets the text.

‘ _In town. U busy?”_

He stares at it for a moment, then turns to where the Golem is standing in the corner, trying not to make a nuisance of himself. “Hey, Clayface.” The golem – with an air of weariness that Aaron’s decided he doesn’t appreciate – looks at him. “Think you can make yourself scarce for a night?”  _Or two?_ He thinks, optimistically. The Golem rumbles something about his duty and keeping Aaron safe and – blah blah something in Yiddish, he’s not sure – and Aaron raises his eyebrows when he’s done. “Yeah, but can you get lost? Go, I dunno, patrol the town. Get yourself a hot chocolate and flirt with the pillars in front of the library, maybe.”

The Golem looks, if it’s even possible on his face, extremely offended. “It’s my duty to-"

“Look, man, I don’t want to have to pull rank or anything, but I’ll  _command_  you to get out if I have to.”

The Golem, definably, sighs. “Very well.” It says, voice like a landslide. “Do you want me to go now?”

“There’s a lightbulb that needs changing.”

The Golem stares obstinately at him, in lieu of reply.

“…Okay yeah, just go now.”

The Golem ambles off, slamming the front door behind him. Aaron isn’t worried about judgement from the creature, necessarily; but having him in the house makes things pretty fucking awkward, something he learned the hard way. He looks down, again at his phone, and at the message. The obvious hesitance in its wording, its deliberate brusqueness. It’s cute.

He texts back,  _‘Nope. See you later? Mine? 8pm?”_

 _‘After 9.’_ Is all he gets in response. He shrugs to himself, types back.

_‘K.’_

 

_\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Aaron almost laughs when he opens the door and is met with what looks like almost seven feet of ridiculously anxious man in plaid, shivering on his doorstep, illuminated by the yellow light from inside. He holds back, though, afraid the poor guy will spook if he laughs in his face. 

“You okay?” He asks, carefully. Dean meets his eyes with deliberateness.

“Yeah. Fine.” He breathes, looking behind him briefly as Aaron steps away to let him in. Dean has his arms wrapped around himself. Aaron looks him over carefully.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“You want a drink or something?”

Dean’s face relaxes in relief. Tentatively, he smiles. “If that’s okay.”

“Sure.”

He doesn’t necessarily get him  _drunk._ In fact, were it not for him, Dean might’ve been worse than he was, which at its height was mildly tipsy, telling Aaron a story about a witch in Tulsa which Aaron isn’t entirely sure he believes.

“So you found the – the thing.”

“Hex bag.”

“ _Right._ Hex bag. Sure. And you-“

“Burned it.”

“And that-“

“Broke the spell , yeah. Everyone back to normal. Poof.” Dean grins, pleased with himself, hands looser, a big step away from the huge, trembling  _wreck_ he’d been at the door (thank  _god)_. “Town saved.”

“Uh huh.” Aaron says dubiously. “That easy?”

Dean makes a noise. They’re on the couch, Dean inching closer to him with every sip of whiskey, as if Aaron isn’t going to notice when suddenly he’s barely an inch away, his longer legs pressed to Aaron’s, no space between them for elbows. “It wasn’t  _easy._ Were you listening?”

“Just saying, burning a bag doesn’t seem like rocket science.”

Dean opens his mouth, then shuts it again. “Well we had to kill the witch, too.”

“Sure. Obviously.” Aaron’s eyebrows inch higher. “Makes se-“ and he’s actually surprised when Dean slides his hand around the side of his face, and pulls him over to kiss him. He pulls back. “Fucking  _finally.”_ He says, and Dean sighs, exasperatedly, and kisses him again.

Aaron steadies himself with a hand against the arm of the couch – he’s been with bigger guys before (hasn’t had much  _choice,_ really, being as short as he is) but Dean is taller, even, than most, and built like a fucking brick shithouse, so even when Dean is being gentle – and he  _is,_ not needy, not surging forward; just holding Aaron’s face with his one hand and lifting the other to lay it carefully on his knee – it’s a little hard to stay grounded, unless he’s pushing back.

So he pushes back. Tips him the other way, opens his mouth and shamefully enjoys the way Dean draws breath when he pushes his tongue against his. He slides his hand into the hair at Dean’s nape, fists his hand in it just firmly enough to push him a little further back, and climb half-on top of him. Dean goes willingly; is content, it seems, to go wherever Aaron necessarily wants him to, kissing back enthusiastically but giving little in terms of direction. “My room’s down the hall.” He says, embarrassed by his own lack of subtlety – but if Dean’s bothered by it he doesn’t say anything; he moves his hands to Aaron’s back, and pulls him in closer.

“Sure. Yeah.” He murmurs between kisses, breath hot and sour with whiskey, hands hanging on as if he can’t quite understand being  _allowed_ to touch – Aaron finds that, too, faintly adorable. But he’s caught on the couch now, despite his suggestion; caught mapping Dean’s frame with his hands, careful not to push too much or too far, brain faintly fizzing at the things he’s got laid out underneath him, Dean kissing his neck and Aaron trying not to make too much of a fuss about his  _fucking arms is this guy a fucking bodybuilder or something holy fucking shit?_ He pulls back when Dean murmurs something indistinct against his collarbone.

“Left side or right?” he says, again, and it takes Aaron a full ten seconds to figure out he’s talking about the bedroom.

“Left.”

“Okay.”

Aaron gets off him without another word and goes down the hall, confident that he will follow – stumbling a little because he’s either tipsier than he thought or more weirded out than he thought about how little this feels like a one night stand; how careful Dean is. Aaron knows full well he’s never done this before – hell, he’s probably never even  _kissed_ a guy, which makes him uncomfortable in a way he doesn’t really want to consider, because it’ll ruin the moment; Dean pins him to the wall briefly before they reach the door, kisses him quick and deep.

He refuses to make it awkward. When they stumble over the threshold of his room he tugs Dean sharply with him – trips him a little in the process of getting him across the room, onto the bed, into a space where what they’re doing here can no longer be up for any kind of debate. He ends up with Dean’s knees bracketing his thigh on the bed, kissing him again but moving no further, and it’s  _frustrating_ until he realises Dean isn’t being prudish – he’s waiting for a cue, waiting to see if this is okay. He almost laughs, again, and tugs at the hem of Dean’s shirt. Pulls it off – notes the tattoo, which’ll probably be worth asking about later – and tries not to feel inadequate under his gaze when Dean responds in kind, revealing his weedy, pale torso to scrutiny.

He needn’t have worried, though – Dean just puts his hands straight back on him, grips at his waist and traces his spine with a palm, slow. He makes a noise when Aaron starts on his jeans, pulling away to pop the button open and pull them down – the sound is low and wanting, obviously not intentional, because he feels Dean duck his head in embarrassment, chin colliding with Aaron’s forehead. Dean helps him kick the jeans away; watches as Aaron meets his gaze and tugs his own pants off, drawing his knees up to pull them away from his feet.

“You good?” he mutters, just making sure, because Dean’s eyes are slightly glassy, his breathing rapid.

“Yeah.” He says, still watching Aaron’s face. “Yeah, I’m good.”

The pause does nothing to deter him; he tilts his face up to kiss Dean again, and reaches down to palm him through his boxers – careful, careful because if Dean locks up and says no, now, he’s going to be kicking himself until the end of time (Hell, he’ll get the Golem to do it). And a shiver goes through Dean that he feels against his mouth, but nothing more. He pushes his hips against Aaron’s hand, which he chooses to read as a good, good sign – so he pulls away from Dean’s mouth and shuffles back. Dean, on his knees on the bed, watches him and says nothing until Aaron leans down and kisses his stomach, above his navel. The intake of breath is sharp, perhaps more anticipatory than needs be, because damnit he’s  _only a man,_ what exactly is Dean expecting, here? – but he kisses his way downwards nonetheless, takes the time to press his mouth wetly against the cotton of Dean’s black boxers; to nudge his nose against the hair trailing above his underwear, and kiss the dip against his hipbone. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband and pulls the boxers down, no more slowly than needs be. Dean’s half-hard beneath his mouth, and above his head his voice is shaky when he speaks.

“Man, you don’t have to-“

“You think I’d do it if I thought I  _had to?”_ he mutters back, incredulously – this is, to an extent, what he’d been fantasizing about all afternoon (although if he gets his way, there’s more, yet, to look forward to.) He pulls back slightly from where he is. “Can you lay – or sit, whatever - down? It’s easier.”

Dean nods; sits back on his heels and then pulls his feet from underneath him, ending up bare-assed on the sheets, watching Aaron carefully through eyes with pupils blown. He has to walk on his knees to get up there, and there’s not exactly a sexy way to do it, but when a dude knows you’re going to blow him you don’t exactly have to put on a show – and his point is proven by the fact that Dean is almost all the way hard when he gets to it, and he chooses to just lean down, one hand on Dean’s hip, the other lying flat on his waist, and wrap his mouth around the head of his cock without any pretension about it.

Dean makes a noise like he’s dying – which bodes well for the whole clawing-at-the-sheets thing, Aaron thinks mildly – and his breath ratchets higher as Aaron takes him in his mouth, moving down carefully, taking him about half-way and then drawing up again, tongue running up the length of him as he pulls almost all the way off, then dips back down. Either side of him, Dean’s legs are drawn up, heels pushing against the mattress; he resists the temptation to smile, the gesture a little pointless at this particular stage. Instead he sucks, hard, and is gratified when Dean curses vehemently and his hips twitch under Aaron’s hand; Dean pushes further into his mouth, hips jerking up from the mattress, and Aaron gags slightly – pulls back a little but keeps going. He lets Dean fuck his mouth a little, pulling almost all the way off and then going back down again, Dean’s breath getting faster and faster, his thighs trembling next to Aaron’s face – and then ruins it all when Dean puts a hand on the back of his head and he starts  _laughing._ With a cock in his mouth.   Which isn’t that easy, actually, so he has to pull away, taking with him a fucking  _disgusting_ string of spit and pre-come and god knows what else – and he’s still laughing. When he glances at Dean, the poor guy looks irritated and fucking  _heartbroken,_ all at once.

“What?”

“I’m sorry.” He tries to catch his breath. “I’m sorry, oh my god, I just-“ he doesn’t even know why he’s laughing, only that he  _is,_ and it’s so awkward, and he can’t fucking stop. “It’s not you.” He assures him, but Dean looks unconvinced, so Aaron wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry.” He says again, just to make sure. “I should’ve stopped anyway, right? If we’re-“ he makes a gesture which isn’t even really clear to  _himself,_ let alone to Dean, but from Dean’s expression, he gets it.  “Unless you don’t want to, which is cool.” He adds, trying for nonchalant but managing  _please don’t reject me just because I started giggling during what was only a half-decent blowjob anyway._

“I want to.” Dean tells him, still trying to catch his breath.

“Cool. Great.” When did this get awkward? Probably the laughing thing. “How do you want-“

“Could you-“ Dean swallows.

“You mean-“ he does a little twirly movement with his finger, possibly the gayest moment he’s ever actually had, including when he’s had sex with dudes. Dean nods.

Aaron swallows, as Dean had before, and licks his lips without thinking about it, tasting salt as he does. “Yeah. I can do that.” He mutters in a haze, and looks Dean up and down. Swallows again. “Turn over?” he says, fucking  _mortified_ to ask, but that’s how they’ll get where they’re going.

Dean, to his credit, looks only the slightest bit wary as he complies; he’s got at least some concept of how this works, thank  _fuck,_ because he turns over and grips the headboard with his hands. Aaron takes a moment – contemplates getting his camera to take a picture and send it to whatever gay equivalent there is of  _Playboy,_ but decides it would probably ruin the moment – then shuffles over to the edge of the bed and pulls his bedside table open, to get lube and a condom. He pulls his boxers (now wet; what can he say? This whole nervous-big-guy thing really does it for him) off and tosses them over the side of the bed, then rips the condom open and rolls it on as quickly as he can, hands shaking; Dean lets go of the headboard and sits back on his heels; turns around to look at him as Aaron gets the condom rolled down and squirts a generous amount of lube onto his hand, rubbing his fingers together to warm it up a little.

“You gonna-“ Dean asks, eyes on his fingers, gruff, and Aaron nods. Dean – so fucking  _large_ in body and countenance and every other fucking way – puts his hands on the headboard again, back straight, the soles of his feet turned towards Aaron as he walks on his knees to sit between Dean’s legs.

“You sure?” he asks, and Dean half- _growls,_ “Fucking  _do it,”_ not angry but  _desperate,_ and he pushes back towards Aaron, arms tense, locking tighter when Aaron pushes his first finger in and works it in and out. Dean’s breathing heavily and Aaron is the same, turned on beyond belief just by the sight of his finger working in and out of him, feeling almost lightheaded when Dean  _keens_ as he adds a second, scissoring them inside him, changing the angle until he catches the place inside him that makes Dean push back against his fingers, working up a rhythm _,_ a long, low noise coming from Dean that stutters when Aaron’s fingers brush his prostate again. He can’t find the words to ask – almost can’t bear to pull his hand away, now, fascinated with the way Dean’s back moves as he pushes onto Aaron’s fingers, over and over. “Dean.” He says, and his voice comes out a little more ragged than he wants it to, and all Dean says, hands still braced against the headboard, is “Do it, Aaron, fucking do it.”, again.

He can’t argue with that – he pulls his fingers out and presses a hand against Dean’s lower back, pushing him down just slightly so that he’s tall enough to kneel up as he slicks his cock up with more lube and fists the base of it – uses it to guide himself inside of Dean. Even with just the head of him it’s fucking tight, ridiculous, and he almost pulls out and gives up entirely before Dean looks over his shoulder at him as best he can, and catches Aaron’s rapt expression, and says nothing – but his eyes are half-lidded and he’s breathing through parted lips, his face wide-open, completely guileless, and Aaron slides further into him, almost all the way, with a slow, disbelieving moan.

It’s hard to get purchase, if only because Dean is so much bigger than him; he holds him at his hips and drags in and out of him slowly, at first – Dean (and from this angle Aaron can’t see his face, but his hands are white-knuckled clutching the headboard) grits out, “Touch me, for god’s sake,” between hitches of breath. Aaron gropes around his hip and finds his cock hanging there, hard and still wet with his spit and with pre-come; he slides his fist up and down it, trying to keep rhythm with his own shallow thrusting into Dean’s body, getting more and more carried away with it when Dean makes noise – grunts and moans, sometimes Aaron’s name under his breath, sometimes a curse, “Jesus  _fucking Christ”_ – and he can’t  _not_ pick up the pace, starting to pull in and out of him with less care.

He strokes Dean’s cock faster, thumbing the head of it, trying to angle himself and hit him in that same spot inside again, to make Dean draw breath sharply as he did before – make him say his name, low, extended. He catches it a couple of times – knows it by the way Dean mutters, “ _Fuck.”,_ louder, but can’t keep slamming into it with accuracy, too carried away by the way Dean is so tight around him. He feels it come on like a sudden wave -  moves faster, hard as he’s able, trying to keep his hand firm around Dean, trying not to come before Dean does, because if he does, he knows, he’ll pull out and roll over and fall asleep and that just wouldn’t be fair, would it?

He’s almost relieved when Dean’s legs quiver and he groans a last time – feels like he’s been holding back for a fucking  _age_ when Dean makes a noise he fucking  _loves,_ a guttural moan that seems to come from the very base of him – and comes over his hand. Aaron doesn’t get far, after that – a wave of fresh arousal spikes through him when he thinks,  _Holy shit, I’m the first fucking person to do this  to him –_ and he shakes as he fills the condom, coming messily inside him, hips shaking as he rides it out.

He pulls out and sinks down to sit, a hand over his chest where his heart is still fucking hammering in his chest. Dean sags similarly and rolls over, boneless; lies down on his back, looking up at the ceiling.

Aaron watches him in silence, suddenly a little stunned that it just happened – Dean’s stomach and chest are spattered with come, and the condom is still on his softening cock. He pulls it off, ties it up, tries and fails to throw it into the wastepaper basket on the other side of the room – then looks at Dean, and Dean is fucking  _grinning_ at him.

“That was awesome.” He says, smile wide and white and boyish. Aaron starts laughing again.

 

* * *

He wakes up and gropes across the bed to find it empty, and he’s not really surprised – but he can smell bacon, and  _that –_ that comes as a small shock, to say the least. 

He gets up and finds his dressing-gown, tugging it on. He feels a little gross, carpet-mouth and the weird, uneasy sense that someone he doesn’t really know all that well (they’re  _at least_ friends now, though. He’s actually unsure of the exact definition of what Dean is, for a lot of reasons) is in his house,  _doing things._

Dean is in his kitchen and he hears Aaron come in – turns with a weird sort of half-hopeful grin when Aaron just blinks blearily at him. Dean’s fully dressed, hair wet from presumably having showered, and he doesn’t look twitchy or nervous or ashamed at all, which eliminates at least two of Aaron’s fears in one fell swoop. “uh. Good morning.” He says warily. Dean nods.

“Made breakfast. Is that okay?”

“Yeah. Sure.” He mutters, and goes to pour himself a coffee (Dean made a fresh pot, and this is really fucking domestic, and he’s starting to feel uncomfortable). He holds it, steaming, black, in both his hands. “So, uh – you’re up early.”

“Back on the road today.” Dean says, half-apologetically. Aaron nods and goes to sit at the kitchen table.

“Right. Of course.”

He sips his coffee, and Dean turns back to the stove. Aaron knows they probably won’t keep in touch, after this – knew it before he even gave him his number, really – and he’s totally okay with that because Dean, whilst  _ridiculously_ hot, is too much of a bundle of issues for Aaron to want to touch with an emotional bargepole.

But  _fuck –_ watching Dean’s broad back as he cracks eggs into a frying pan, his nervous, hesitant smile when he shovels eggs and bacon and toast onto a plate and passes it over – he thinks at least this morning, he’s fallen a little bit in love with Dean, with his green eyes and his long legs and his silly, obvious, desperate desire to be liked.

Dean sits opposite him, though gingerly. “Sleep well?” he asks, nonchalant. Aaron nods.

“Pretty well.” He says, cautious. “You – good?”

“Yeah.” Dean replies, contemplatively, around a mouthful of breakfast. “Yeah, I’m fine. I hope you didn’t think I was taking advantage, or anything.” He adds, quickly, and Aaron half-chokes on his food, snorting.

“ _You_ were taking advantage?”

Dean shrugs. “Sometimes you just need – you know.” He said. “Thanks, man.” And it wasn’t a lie, even; it was careful, unconstructed.Dean had just  _needed,_ had wanted something from Aaron that he was only too happy to provide (and would provide again if Dean asked, no fucking questions asked).

Aaron laughed. “No problem.” He chewed thoughtfully on a piece of toast. “So I’m the first guy you’ve ever kissed, huh?”

Dean looks sharply at him. “No, there was – once.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Dean says, but offers nothing more; his gaze closes off. He looks down at his breakfast. “Just, you know. Once.”

“What happened?”

“He’s gone right now.” Dean mutters. “It doesn’t matter.” He leans his chin in his hand, looking at his breakfast as he gathers it up to put in his mouth. Aaron thinks, dimly, that for a guy who overcompensates, Dean is a surprisingly competent cook.

“Right. Okay, well.” He pauses. “Good luck with that.”

 Dean looks up, and smiles gently at him. “Thanks.”

* * *

 It’s definitely the fucking weirdest one night stand Aaron’s ever had – but one moment – aside from the sex, of course, which he’s decided to remember on his fucking  _death bed –_ sticks with him even a few days later when he’s back on the road, again. 

He let Dean out when he had to go – it was still early morning, only just starting to warm up, and Dean stepped outside, hands in his pockets. Outside Aaron’s door, shifting, he paused. Shuffled a little, scuffing his shoes against the ground, looking up at the sky then back at the smaller man, standing in his doorway.  And then, soft and hesitant, he leaned down and kissed him, briefly, chaste and soft.

Aaron watched him leave – watched him walk into town, going god knows where, back to his brother.

He knows he’ll probably never hear from Dean again, except in passing – the odd text, maybe. If he’s lucky, another opportunity like this might roll around – but he’s not getting his hopes up.

He watched him leave, across the parking lot, and then went back inside; and that final kiss was still pressed against him; tender as comfort. A thank you; for what, Aaron can't really tell.

He keeps it, all the same. 


End file.
